


Christmas on Baker Street

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2014 [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 01:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2833124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Harry’s idea, to go back to the Baker Street house in Upper Brickley for Christmas.  A Christmassy one-shot in the Mise 'Verse</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas on Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hedgehogandotter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedgehogandotter/gifts).



> This is the 23rd installment of this year’s Advent Calendar Drabbles. It’s titled with the prompt, which was given by hedgehognotter, who gets bonus Mise ‘Verse – mostly because I realized it was the only ‘verse which I hadn’t actually expanded this month. (And then everyone on Tumblr confirmed they wanted more, which I did sort of know already.) 
> 
> I don’t normally get my Advent Calendar Drabbles betaed – but I don’t normally write them to be 15K long, either. Thanks to earlgreytea68 and ladyprydian for taking a look to make sure I stayed on target, and to persiflager for the Brit-pick. They worked like super-quick bunnies and any remaining mistakes are not their fault.

The street was brightly lit with fairy lights strung on every fencepost and hedge, glittering and twinkling in the dark blue evening. Wreaths decorated nearly every door, festooned with bright red and gold ribbons, frosted pine cones, and clunky-and-meant-to-be-endearing displays of childhood drawings.  There was even a light frost on the ground that helpfully reflected the bright lights in fractured patterns.

 

Every house on Baker Street, brightly decorated, all lights shining, expectations of cheerful music within – every house, but one.

 

It was well after dark when the little blue car drove slowly down the street before pulling into the drive.  Its passengers sat inside for a moment after turning off the engine, no doubt conversing between themselves, before finally turning themselves out into the cold night, shrugging on the coats they’d left off for the drive down from London.  One in particular seemed keen to get inside where it was no doubt warmer; the other, a taller, lanky fellow who might have been born to wear the coat he had around his shoulders, even if he couldn’t be bothered to put it on, simply stood near the car and looked around, as if trying to decide whether or not it was worth the bother of being disdainful.

 

“The door’s stuck,” complained John Watson, as he struggled with the front door.  “If I…just… _argh_.”

 

A few solid thumps, and John managed to push the door open.  “Come on, Sherlock, Harry will have turned the heat on yesterday.”

 

“Mmm,” said Sherlock, and followed.

 

There were just enough lights left on inside for them to see the foyer and the path leading to the kitchen on the right, with the stairs ahead.  John paused to frown at the door, the key still wedged in the lock, while Sherlock bustled past him, knocking his shoes on the floor as he went, as though he’d been trekking through the snow for miles instead of sitting in a comfortably warm car speeding its way from London.

 

“We’ll have to fix the door,” said John, frowning at it as he worked at the key in the lock.

 

“Or not,” said Sherlock, already in the kitchen.  John heard him open the refrigerator door.  “More importantly, the fridge is in working condition, though I don’t believe Harry has made much use of it.”

 

“She’s only been here a day, Sherlock.”

 

“Check the drinks cupboard,” said Sherlock dryly.

 

John yanked the key out of the lock and had to shove up against the door before it would click itself closed.  “No one’s going to buy a house with a jammed front door.”

 

Sherlock appeared again, and reached to open it again.  “Lucky we brought supplies.  Heaven knows what the stores here have in stock.”

 

John rolled his eyes.  “Upper Brickley is not _quite_ the back of beyond you think it is, you know.”

 

“Says the man who has lived in London for the last year,” said Sherlock.  He eyed the difficult door for a moment, before going through the rear entrance in order to fetch the remaining boxes from the car.

 

John resisted the urge to kick him – less because Sherlock was an arse, more because what he said was true.  He’d come back from Korea – straight to London’s Baker Street, and Sherlock, and working in Bart’s A&E and only cooking for himself and Sherlock, and maybe Molly and Greg every so often.  He exchanged emails with Artie and Mary, and there was the odd call or two from Mrs Hudson – but he hadn’t gone back to Upper Brickley since the day he and Harry had left nearly two years before.  Hadn’t even thought about it, not really. 

 

The house had sat empty, without them.

 

“I think we should sell it,” Harry had said the month before, during one of their many scratchy, time-delayed long-distance phone calls.  “I’m never going to live there again.  You’re settled in London now.  It’s not as though there’s a new generation who’ll want it.”

 

“Sell it?” John had echoed. 

 

“Are you ever going back?” Harry had demanded.  “Come on, John, be honest with yourself.  Can you really see yourself living in boring little Upper Brickley again, and being _happy_?”

 

The question hadn’t really occurred to him, and John hadn’t known how to answer – not then, and not now that he was back in that same house, propping the rear door open with a chair.  He went out to the car, where Sherlock was hefting a rather large box, filled with cheeses and biscuits, a few jars of mince and caviar and jams, Christmas crackers, knives, and various baking and cooking pans that John hadn’t been sure were duplicated in the Upper Brickley kitchen. 

 

“I’ve got the first box,” said Sherlock.

 

“Lovely.  I’ll bring in the suitcases, you can lug the second box, too.”

 

“John.  The second box is _important_.”

 

“The second box is _ridiculous_ , you didn’t need to bring _towels_.”

 

“You’ll thank me when we use them, John!”

 

John snorted, and pulled the suitcases out of the boot. 

 

“I want to sell the house,” Harry had said, and even John had to agree that from a financial standpoint, it made sense. They still owed nearly 600,000 pounds on the loan they’d taken out in the attempt to rescue the Empire from Moriarty – selling the house would put a substantial dent into that amount, and maybe ease the pressure John felt every month in paying it. 

 

“Harry wants to sell the house,” John told Sherlock in the darkness of the comfortable bedroom on London’s Baker Street.  Everything about the flat said _home_ to John; the sounds of the city, muffled by the thick curtains.  The way Sherlock pummeled his pillow to death as he worked his way to sleep.  The soft rocking of the mattress, as John’s heartbeat slowed to normal.

 

Each word worked its way out, separate from the others, as if John was just trying the idea out without much faith in the phrase.  He thought the words would hang in the air, painful or foreboding or simply weighted with multiple generations.  Instead, Sherlock gave his pillow one last punch and turned onto his stomach before he spoke.

 

“It’s worth considering.”

 

John considered it.  He’d been considering it, for the last month.  He thought if he considered it for another minute, he’d scream.

 

It didn’t take long before the car was emptied, and the door shoved closed again.  Sherlock was happily rearranging the kitchen.

 

“Told you there was a frying pan,” said John, and Sherlock gave him – and the frying pan sitting on the table – a haughty sniff.

 

“ _That_ is not a fry pan.  It’s an insult.  Did you pack my salt?”

 

“It’s _salt_ , Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open and he stared at John with an expression that on anyone else would have been mocking – on Sherlock, it was likely heart-felt shock.

 

And then Sherlock raised one hand to point at John – which might have been more terrifying if he hadn’t been holding a whisk at the time – and pointed accusingly at him.  “Take. That. Back.”

 

John grinned.  “Yes, Chef.  Look in the red box, they’re wrapped in tissue.”

 

“ _Salt_ ,” grumbled Sherlock, and went back to unpacking.  John couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped as he hefted the first of the suitcases up the stairs.

 

“If we’re going to sell it,” he’d said to Harry during that conversation, “we should at least clear our things out of it.  The furniture and photographs and—“

 

“Christmas,” said Harry.  “Let’s have Christmas there, we didn’t get to have Christmas together last year.  And then we can sign all the paperwork to put it up for sale after.”

 

A good plan, in theory.  In practice, however….

 

John stood in the doorway of his old bedroom, the suitcases on the floor behind him, and stared at the single bed shoved to the wall.  The room looked almost exactly as he remembered it, which was of no comfort whatsoever when he had completely forgotten to take into account how many people currently slept in his bed.

 

John thought of the larger bed in his parents’ room, and just as quickly dismissed the idea.  Maybe he could convince Sherlock the door was locked and thus unusable.  He snorted quietly, and then set the bags inside the room – not much chance of it, he reflected.  Sherlock could read him as easily as he could read the genesis of the tomatoes he’d purchased that morning in London.

 

It was only for a few days.  Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and then on Boxing Day, Mary had promised to come by for a visit.  They’d see the solicitor on Monday to make the necessary arrangements, and then….

 

John stepped to the window and looked out.  Baker Street looked like a mixture of bright and cheerful, and terribly kitschy.  How Sherlock had refrained from pointed and derisive commentary, John had no idea.

 

If John turned just so, he could see the lights from the High Street shining over the trees.  It was equally bright and cheerful.  John remembered the way the shops would decorate their windows with holly and tinsel, how the town would string brightly colored paper lanterns, and tie Christmas wreaths to the lampposts.  When John had been small, and James Watson still alive, he liked to decorate the windows of the Empire up with cartoons of trees and reindeer and brightly colored packages.

 

John closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the glass. 

 

_The Empire’s mise was perfect. But sometimes perfect doesn’t ensure success._

 

“Right,” said John, and pushed away from the window.  Enough time for that later.  He left the suitcases as they were, and went downstairs to help Sherlock with dinner.

 

*

 

John opened his eyes just as the window began to glow blue with morning sunlight.  There was no uncertainty about where he was, or why he was there, though he did have a strange moment of déjà vu.  Strange, only because he couldn’t remember ever waking up in his childhood bedroom with another man pressed close to him – let alone Sherlock Holmes.  It took John a moment to settle inside himself, to remember that he didn’t have to worry about Mum or Dad barging in on them because he was late for school or for a Saturday morning shift at the Empire. 

 

Mum and Dad were long since gone, buried and mourned and missed. 

 

And the Empire…?

 

_Always start with what takes the longest first, Johnny._

 

There was barely a sliver of the sky through the window, but it was enough to see that the sky grew brighter with every passing moment, and finally, John couldn’t stay still any longer.  He slipped out of the bed and dressed quickly and quietly before heading downstairs.

 

He didn’t stop for tea – he put on his coat and hat and scarf and went, still tugging on his gloves.  He pulled the door closed with a sharp tug, and wondered if the noise would wake Sherlock.

 

He hoped not.  He didn’t particularly want the company.

 

The town was already bustling, despite the late sunrise: eight in the morning, most people were well on their way to work, particularly those who worked in nearby Coventry.  John walked quickly along the pavement, and luckily no one recognized him – or if they did, it wasn’t until it was too late to say hello. 

 

It was a quick walk to the High Street.  The Christmas lights were off, of course, but the sun was high enough that the bright colors of the baubles and ribbons still looked festive and cheerful against the bright blue sky.  The air was crisp, the frost crunched under John’s feet; it even _smelled_ like Christmas, what with all the pine boughs tied to the lampposts.  It felt a bit like walking into a picture postcard of a perfect Victorian Christmas, all gas lights and yellow smog and cheerful urchins huddled in the shadows.  John looked down the street, almost surprised to see sleek and modern cars, when really it ought to have been horses and buggies, and people singing carols as they shoved their hands in fur muffs and drank mulled cider.

 

It was only a few minutes before John Watson stood in front of the empty lot that had once contained the Empire.  The High Street, normally bustling with people, was empty for a few moments, and John shoved his hands in his pockets and worked to keep his breaths even.

 

In his mind, he’d pictured the lot the way it had been in the episode: collapsed walls, bits of glass strewn about, burnt bits of furniture, a curtain waving in the breeze.  But none of that was there any more – the lot had long since been cleared of debris, and the lot was now just the bare brick of the buildings on either side, a bit charred from the fire, but solid and sturdy enough.  The ground was a strange, even mix of exposed concrete and dirt, with grass attempting to grow in various places. 

 

It was smaller than John remembered.  He mapped out the ground with his eyes, tried to place the tables and chairs and the bar, the dimensions of the dining room and manager’s office and kitchen.  It didn’t look big enough, not even by half.  In his memory, the Empire stretched on for miles.

 

“It’s too small,” said a voice by his side, and John turned to see Harry Watson standing next to him, almost a mirror image for him, with her hands in her pockets, staring at the lot.  She was a bit blurry, until John ran his gloves over his eyes, surprised when they came away wet.  “Maybe it was magic.”

 

“Harry,” said John.

 

“Hi, John,” said Harry, with a bit of a smile, and she leaned her shoulder against his arm.  There were dark circles under her eyes; he wondered, briefly, exactly what she’d been doing all night, but pushed the thought out of his head almost as quickly as it came in.  “Thought you’d be asleep.”

 

“Sherlock is.  I wanted to see it first.” John shrugged.  “Stupid, probably.”

 

“Yeah,” said Harry.  “Not really, though.”

 

The wind was cold, running straight down the street, coming in from the lot.  Harry shivered, and burrowed a bit closer in to John.  He could close his eyes, remember the brick façade, the glass window, the door with the bell.  The awning, the windows above it to the flat where Clara and Harry had lived when they’d been happy.

 

Inside, John remembered the way it had been, before Sherlock.  The carpet and the thick curtains, the walls covered in bric-a-brac, the four portraits hanging on the far wall.  The mess of the manager’s office, the bar shoved in the corner, with the open window into the kitchen.  The table where he and Harry had ruled as children, the warming trays, the mess of the stovetops and ovens, the walk-in fridge and freezer, the washing room off to the side.

 

He could see the alley in the back now.  It looked exactly the same as how he remembered it.

 

_“I find myself in possession of the last piece of your chef’s quite delicious pie. Do you want it?”_

_“As it’s my piece, yes!”_

 

“John Watson!” shouted a familiar voice behind them, and John turned to see Mrs Hudson standing in her doorway, arms crossed and a frown on her face.  “And Harry.  You’ll catch your deaths, the both of you.  Come in here, right now, before your feet freeze to the pavement.”

 

“Gladly,” said Harry firmly, and turned to go.  “Not like it’s going anywhere.”

 

John glanced back at the empty lot where a restaurant had once stood.  “Be right there,” he called.

 

“I’m drinking your tea if you aren’t!” shouted Harry in response.

 

But the lot hadn’t changed; it was just as empty as before.  And now that Mrs Hudson had opened her door, he could smell the breads and biscuits and cakes.  His stomach growled.

 

Harry was right enough - the lot wasn’t going anywhere.  John turned to go inside.

 

*

 

“Lemon biscuits,” said Mrs Hudson, setting the plate down in front of John.  Harry had picked a table as far from the window as she could, and was sitting with her back to it as well, but John could see a sliver of the lot across the street.  He wasn’t sure that Harry hadn’t had the better idea.

 

“Very healthy for breakfast,” said Harry as she swallowed her chocolate muffin.

 

“Your tea will be ready in a moment, dear,” said Mrs Hudson, and patted John’s shoulder before she went back to the counter, where customers were patiently waiting for their morning croissants.

 

“Tell me about Coventry,” said John, and Harry broke into a smile.

 

“Oh, really stupid,” she said happily.  “There’s a publishing house, they want to do something with the blog.  A series of cookbooks, the kind that are half stories and half recipes, you know?  Photographs and essays and recipes, each book focused on a different city.  They want to stick close to home, though – you know, stay in Britain to start.  Maybe expand to France, Germany, that sort of thing, if the books take off.”

 

“And they want you to do it?”

 

Harry shrugged and tried not to smirk.  “They like the way I look at things, apparently.  Something to do with seeing the familiar in a new way.  I don’t know why, I haven’t been anywhere that speaks English for the last year.  Two, if you don’t count Australia.  Everything I’ve written about so far was unfamiliar to start.  But they’d pay me per diem and everything.”

 

“Still, Hare – that’s fantastic.”

 

“Yeah.”  Harry grinned, a bit sheepish.  “I don’t know.”

 

“Oh, come off it,” scoffed John.

 

“I’m _serious_.  This is the first time I’ve been back in the UK since we left two years ago.”

 

“I think it’s great,” said John.  “Be a lot easier for calling you, anyway.”

 

“Yeah,” said Harry, a bit listless now, and she turned the last piece of her chocolate muffin over in her hand.  “They want me to go to Berkshire first.”

 

“All right,” said John.  “Lovely part of England there, good restaurants—“

 

“Clara’s in Berkshire.”

 

John turned away from the window.  “Ah.”

 

“Yeah.”  Harry fiddled with her teacup.  “Just… if I’m going to spend time there, write about the food there, all the great restaurants – I have to include Clara.  I can’t _not_ include Clara.”

 

“Harry,” said John.  “There’s nearly a million people living in Berkshire, I’m pretty sure you can avoid her.”

 

“She’s working at the Waterside Inn.”

 

“Ah,” said John.  He didn’t live with a master chef for nothing – the Waterside Inn had been a three-star Michelin restaurant since he’d been in primary school, and had earned its first star before John had even been born.  “That’s… that’s quite good for her.  Fantastic, really.”

 

There was a smile on the edge of Harry’s mouth for a moment.  “Yeah.”  She shook the smile off.  “Anyway – not like I could possibly _not_ see her, if I’m going to be talking about the great food traditions of the area.  She’s working in what might as well be the heart of British gourmet cooking.”

 

“How’d she swing that, anyway?  I mean – after the Empire.”

 

Harry shrugged.  “It’s _Clara_.  She’s good, John.  She’s always been good.  Christ, she was always better than what the Empire could offer her.”

 

John frowned.  “Then why was she even—oh.”

 

Harry dropped her teacup on the table with a heavy _clink_.  “Anyway, she’s using all those years of culinary school now.  Doing really well, too – they like her there.”

 

“You talk to her, then?”

 

“No,” said Harry shortly, and John wondered how she knew, but something made him think that Harry wouldn’t have wanted to answer.

 

John glanced out the window over Harry’s shoulder.  “Didn’t think it’d still be empty, two years on.”

 

Harry shrugged.  “Oh, please.  It wasn’t as though that Moriarty bastard actually _cared_ about the property, you know.”

 

“I know.”  John tapped his fingers against the plate of lemon biscuits.  “Guess as long as the lot’s empty, he wins.”

 

“Who wins, dear?” asked Mrs Hudson absently, as she set down John’s tea.  She set down another muffin for Harry at the same time. 

 

“Oh, I couldn’t,” said Harry, eyeing the muffin. 

 

“Don’t be silly, you’re too skinny by half.  What did they feed you in – where was it, dear?”

 

“Germany.  The food was delicious, Mrs H, I promise, but it wasn’t anything like yours.”

 

“Never is, dear,” said Mrs Hudson cryptically. 

 

“I brought you back a recipe, though,” said Harry, and she dug into her pocket.  “Stollen.”

 

Mrs Hudson’s eyes went wide.  “Harry Watson,” she hissed, and glanced over her shoulder.  “And the police officers right there!”

 

“It’s a pastry, Mrs H,” Harry assured her.  She handed over a paper covered in writing.  “I brought a recipe for Sherlock, too.”

 

“Goodness, giving me a turn like that,” Mrs Hudson scolded her, and took her glasses from her pocket to peer at the paper.  “Hmm.  This is quite a bit different from my own recipe.  I’ll have to give it a try.”

 

“I thought you’d like it,” said Harry, pleased.

 

Mrs Hudson looked up from the paper, and followed John’s gaze out the window.  “I know, it’s so depressing, isn’t it?  Every so often, someone will come by and look at it, but then they’ll go away again.  I suppose what with the economy being the way it is.”

 

“Doubt that,” said Harry.

 

“I keep hoping they’ll start building something.”

 

“Think of all the construction workers wanting tea and scones,” said Harry, and gave up on resisting the muffin.

 

“Oh, stop,” chided Mrs Hudson.  “The bank sold it, you know.”

 

“Did they,” said John dryly.  Harry focused on her muffin, unable to meet his gaze.  Not that he was angry about it – not with her, anyway.

 

“Oh, yes.  Some company; there was a sign up until about a week ago, lots of letters.”

 

“JFM,” said Sherlock, behind her, and John sat up straighter.

 

“There you are,” said Mrs Hudson, delighted.  “Sit down, Mr Holmes, I’ll just get you some tea.”

 

“Just tea?”

 

“Not your personal baker, dear,” said Mrs Hudson, and bustled away.  Sherlock’s mouth twitched, and he sat down next to John.

 

“You’re awake,” said John.

 

“More to the point,” said Harry, “how do you know who owns the lot?”

 

“JFM Enterprises,” said Sherlock, stretched out his legs under the table.  “But I suspect you can break it down easily enough.”

 

John frowned.  “James Fucking Moriarty, I presume.”

 

“Technically, his middle name is Fitzgerald.”

 

“Told you it wasn’t because of an economic downturn,” grumbled Harry, tearing her chocolate muffin into pieces.  “Revenge, pure and simple.  If he can’t have it—“

 

“Right,” sighed John, and shook his head.  “Well.  We were always going to lose it.  I guess we’re just lucky we didn’t lose the house, too.”

 

“Yeah,” said Harry shortly, and then shoved back from the table.  “I should go home, shower and all.  Been a long night.”

 

Harry zipped her jacket up with slightly more force than was actually necessary; John tried to meet her eyes, but she steadfastly kept her gaze turned away.  “Harry—“

 

“No, it’s fine, John,” said Harry briskly.  “I might catch a nap.  Himself is making dinner tonight, yeah?”

 

“Yes,” said Sherlock.  “Serving at eight.”

 

“Great.  Lovely.  I’ll be there with bells on.”

 

“And clothes, I would hope.”

 

“And disappoint your viewership?” asked Harry, and left the muffin in shreds on the table.

 

John sighed and rubbed at his forehead.  “Bloody hell.  This is going well.”

 

“Well, you did mention the house,” said Sherlock absently, and he turned in the chair to peer at the display with the pies and tartlets.

 

John looked up sharply.  “That’s the whole reason we’re _here_ , isn’t it?  Harry wants to sell it.”

 

“Don’t you?”

 

“There’s no point in _keeping_ it.  Harry doesn’t even want to come back here, and we’ve never once come out in the last year.  It’s just sitting here, empty.  Selling it would go a long ways toward paying off the debt.”

 

“All very true,” said Sherlock, but he appeared to be more interested in the leftover pieces of Harry’s chocolate muffin than he was the conversation, and John huffed in annoyance.  “Mrs Hudson has changed her flour loyalties.”

 

“You know all this, Sherlock.  You _agreed_ that selling the house was the right thing.”

 

“Did I?”

 

“Yes, you did!”

 

“Here you are,” announced Mrs Hudson, a cup of tea in one hand, and a plate containing a piece of raspberry tart in the other.  She set both down in front of Sherlock, and sighed as she eyed the chocolate muffin Harry left behind.  “Oh, that girl.  She did the same thing when she was in school.”

 

Sherlock popped a piece into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.  “Change back to the previous flour, Mrs Hudson.  The new one does not suit your baking style.”

 

Mrs Hudson raised her eyebrows.  “I would, if I didn’t have a hundred more pounds before the order runs out.  We can’t all just waste ingredients, Mr Holmes.”

 

“Waste of butter, sugar, and eggs.”

 

“Not your employee, Mr Holmes,” said Mrs Hudson firmly, and turned back to John.  “Tell me, do you see Molly at all, John?”

 

John let off glaring at Sherlock – who seemed immune to it anyway – and tried to calm down his temper in order to answer her.  “I stop into her bakery now and then – it’s a bit out of the way.  But she looks good – very healthy, full of energy.”

 

“Due in April, isn’t she?”

 

“I think so, yes.  She said you were going to come up to London after the baby’s born?”

 

“I thought I might.  After Easter, I could do with a bit of a holiday.  She asked me to bake the baby shower cake – one of those where the color of the cake says if it’s a boy or a girl.”

 

“Pedestrian,” pronounced Sherlock, and nearly choked on his tea when Mrs Hudson rapped his head with her knuckles.  “But at least you’ll have run through the abysmal flour selection.”

 

“I thought white, with an appropriately colored core, don’t you think that would be lovely?  And green ribbons on the outside.”

 

The conversation went on; John only gave it the most cursory of attention.  The man sitting closest to the window had moved, and now John could see easily through the glass to the empty lot across the street.  He stared, lost in thought for who the hell knew how long, before he heard his name.

 

“Yes, sorry,” he said, turning back to Sherlock and Mrs Hudson.  “Could you repeat that?”

 

“You’ll tell Mary to stop by?” asked Mrs Hudson.  “The shop won’t be open on Boxing Day, of course – that week is my little holiday – but I’d very much like to see her, if she can tear herself away from your festivities.”

 

John frowned.  “But you’ll be there too, won’t you?”

 

“Oh, no,” laughed Mrs Hudson.  “Thank you, dear, but I’m going to put my feet up and eat nothing but raw vegetables.”

 

“Ah,” said John, and didn’t dare make eye contact with Sherlock.  “That sounds…festive.”

 

“There’s only so much festive one can stand, dear,” said Mrs Hudson, and with a final pat on the shoulder, went back to her customers behind the counter.

 

*

 

It was another hour before they left Mrs Hudson’s shop, Sherlock having become involved in a conversation with Mrs Hudson about her new flour.  When John stepped out onto the pavement, the empty lot across the street seemed larger and smaller all at once, a bit like a space where a tooth had been in a previously well-known smile. 

 

Sherlock let the door close behind them, and stood next to John for a long moment.  John could hear him breathe as he waited, completely still, as though feigning patience.  John couldn’t help the tension that crept into his muscles.

 

“I just want another look,” he said finally, and Sherlock shrugged. 

 

“However long you like.  We’re not in a rush.”

 

John turned to look at him.  Sherlock didn’t look particularly disturbed or concerned; he almost appeared bored, really, as if he was still thinking about the flour conversation, or maybe what he intended to do with the mushrooms for dinner.

 

“You’re being so…”  He struggled to find the word, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.  For some reason, that small movement sent John over the edge.  “Oh, just leave it,” he snapped crossly.  “I don’t know what you’re being, but it’s not like you to be like this.”

 

“Like what, John?”

 

“ _Supportive_.  You’re not supportive, you’re snarky and self-centered and you never really gave a flying fuck about the Empire, anyway.”

 

Sherlock stiffened.  “What do I give a… _flying fuck_ about, then?” he asked, his voice lowered a few octaves in a way that made John’s blood chill.  “You asked for my opinion, and I gave it.  Selling the house would be the most sensible solution; Harry will need capital if she’s to advance a career in publication and whatever money you make on the sale will go a long way to paying down the not inconsiderable debt you accumulated in your attempt to save the Empire.”

 

“See, there you go again – you and Harry both.  As if the _sensible_ thing is the right thing to do.”

 

“In this situation—“

 

“This isn’t a _situation_ , Sherlock.  It’s my family _house_.  Imagine if Mycroft wanted to sell the cottage.”

 

Sherlock was silent, and for a moment John thought he might have made his point.

 

“The cottage belongs to Mycroft,” Sherlock said finally.  “If he wished to sell it, I would have no ability to object.”

 

John shook his head.  “And you’d be that clinical about it?  Mycroft selling the house you grew _up_ in?  Without even asking your opinion?  It’s your house, too.”

 

“ _Was_ ,” Sherlock corrected him.  “All things come to an end, John.”

 

_Empires may rise, and Empires may fall. Some things last forever._

 

John winced, and shoved his hands in his pockets.  “It’s the house where I grew up, Sherlock.  It might not mean anything to you, what Mycroft does with the cottage.  But it means something to me, what Harry and I do with Baker Street.  It’s not just arithmetic.  Not to me.”

 

“I never thought it was.  But you are letting sentiment stand in the way of the decision you’ve made.”

 

John didn’t want to hear it.  “I just need another couple of minutes.  You can go, I’ll catch up.”

 

John stepped out into the street, leaving Sherlock on the pavement.  The wind grew stronger the closer he got to the empty lot across the street, but he could still hear Sherlock’s voice.

 

“It’s just an empty lot, John.”

 

John stopped in the center of the street, looking straight ahead.  He could see the long-gone walls, the awning, the windows where Clara and Harry had been happy.  He could see his father laughing in the dining room, and in the kitchen, Molly and Artie and James cooked and laughed and beamed with pleasure, their faces flushed with the heat of the ovens.

 

“Yeah,” he said finally.  “I know.”

 

John kept walking, and let the memory of a thousand nights continue playing in his mind.

 

*

 

The kitchen was a flurry of Sherlock when John returned to the house.  He walked straight through the chaos and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist, burying his nose in the smooth plane of the shirt across Sherlock’s back.

 

Sherlock had been chopping something – peppers, John thought, but the sound of the knife against the cutting board stopped when John pressed against him.  John breathed in the pale scent of onions and peppers and garlic, and felt Sherlock’s hands press against his own.

 

“I’m sorry I’m a crabby bastard,” said John gruffly into the cotton shirt, and Sherlock gave his hands a squeeze. 

 

“To be expected,” said Sherlock calmly.  “Unless that is too supportive, in which case, I could tell you to piss off instead.”

 

John chuckled, and turned his face to rest his cheek on Sherlock’s back.  “Your choice.  Smells good.”

 

“Mmm.”  Sherlock’s hands left John’s, and then the chopping started up again.  John felt the muscles shift back and forth under Sherlock’s shirt, but Sherlock didn’t seem to mind him still holding on as he worked. 

 

“Where’s Harry?”

 

“The attic.  I believe she said something about getting a head start on clearing through the boxes up there.”

 

John went still, and then exhaled slowly.

 

“Need help down here?”

 

“Not particularly.”

 

John sighed.  “I suppose that’s too obvious a dodge, anyway.”

 

“Painfully so, John.”

 

John squeezed Sherlock around his waist one last time, and then pushed away.  “I’ll just go and help her.  Holler when lunch is ready, yeah?”

 

“Chinese,” said Sherlock.  “Terrible, no doubt, but it has the benefit of being delivered.”

 

John laughed, and brushed a kiss on Sherlock’s shoulder before leaving the kitchen.  He was about to start up the stairs when he had a thought, and on impulse, grabbed both his and Harry’s hats, gloves, and scarves.  Those and an extra jumper would keep them warm enough.

 

The attic to the house on Baker Street wasn’t particularly large, but there were so many boxes set in piles that it took John a moment to find Harry toward the back of the large room.  She was surrounded by open boxes and piles of tissue, and was sitting in the middle of them, a large book open on her lap.  Her nose was red and running, and she seemed to be laughing about something when she looked up and saw John.

 

“Brought you something,” said John, holding up the hat and scarf, and Harry grinned at him. 

 

“Oh, you’re a lifesaver,” she said, and John tossed them to her.  “I found your school annual, John.  I don’t know why it was up here anyway.”

 

“Oh, God,” said John, and sat down next to her while Harry pulled on the warm things.  “Probably when Mum cleared my room out in uni.  Good Christ, is that Jeannette Hurley?”

 

“Yes,” said Harry, clearly delighted.  “God, I had _such_ a crush on her.”

 

“Hare, she was _my_ girlfriend.”

 

“As if you didn’t have eyes for Clara,” snorted Harry, and turned a page before letting out a peal of laughter.  “Oh, John.  Oh, _John_.”

 

John yanked the book out of his sister’s hands.  “Right, this is for the rubbish bin, then.”

 

Harry was laughing too hard to do more than a passing attempt to grab the book from John.  “Oh, come _on_ , John. Don’t you want to show Sherlock what a snappy dresser you were in 1992?”

 

“Piss off, Harry!”

 

Harry giggled as she looked into the box again.  “Oh, Christ.  _Report cards_.”

 

“Yours or mine?”

 

“Does it matter?”

 

“Not really,” said John, and lifted the entire pile and dropped it on top of the annual. 

 

“There’s a box for rubbish on the far end.”

 

“I’m almost afraid to ask what’s in it already.”

 

“More of the same, really.  Some really old stick figures and scribbles.  About a thousand copies of old Empire menus.”

 

“You’re going to throw those away?”

 

“Five thousand copies, yes.  I kept back a few of each version, though.”

 

“Good.”

 

John dumped the pile of report cards and the annual into the box, and then headed back into the fray.  There was a box marked _Clothes_ that turned out to be aprons so old and discolored that he wasn’t sure what color they’d been originally, another box marked _Linens_ that turned out to be tablecloths with stains and cigarette burns.  When he came back for another, he caught Harry looking thoughtfully at the pile.

 

“It’s mostly paper, isn’t it?  And fabric.”

 

“So far, yeah.”

 

“We should have a bonfire.  Christmas night.”

 

John went still for a moment, and then ripped the next box open with a bit more force than was actually necessary.  “A bonfire,” he repeated flatly.

 

“It’s either that or the recycling bin, and a bonfire would be more fun.”  Harry leaned forward, more animated now as she started thinking about it.  “Or Boxing Day.  You invited Mary and Artie, didn’t you?  We could just burn it all, instead of binning it.  Roast marshmallows or something, if you didn’t think Sherlock would have a heart attack.”

 

“Christ, Harry,” said John, and rubbed his face with his hand.  “Let me get this straight.  You want to start a fire and toss the Empire’s old menus and aprons and tablecloths into it?  One case of arson wasn’t enough for you?”

 

Harry didn’t say anything; the temperature in the attic didn’t get any colder, but John could feel the chill on the back of his neck all the same.  He broke the silence by ripping the tape off the box, and wrenching it open.  More folded pieces of cloth – serviettes, John thought, recognizing the scalloped edges.  He remembered his mother ironing and folding them, one after the other, as she watched her afternoon telly.

 

“Fuck you, John,” said Harry, her voice low.  “I’m not the one who burned the Empire down.”

 

“You seem willing enough to burn what’s left of it.”

 

“I’m _trying_ to do something nice that we’ll all remember.”

 

“Well, a bonfire’s a terrible idea,” said John firmly.  “I can load up the car and take it to the recycling center on Monday.”

 

“We’re seeing the solicitors on Monday.”

 

“Then I’ll drop it off on the way,” snapped John.

 

“God, you are so…”  Harry reached for the next box, perched on another, and let it fall to the floor with a thump.   “Whatever.  Fine.  No bonfire.  We’ll all sit in the lounge and stare at each other over a plate of cheese and try to think of what to talk about.  Another bloody Christmas to shove in with the rest.”

 

“It was your idea.”

 

“No, _my_ idea was to have a _good_ Christmas memory, John,” said Harry angrily.  “Just one bloody good memory of a Christmas in this house to take the place of all the ones that didn’t ever happen.”

 

“What are you talking about, Harry?  We’ve had plenty of Christmases in this house.”

 

“No, John. We haven’t.”  Harry pulled a book out of the box and threw it into the rubbish box without even looking at it.  She kept pulling out books, and tossing them, as she talked.  “We had Christmas Eves at the Empire, sitting at a table while our grandfather and then Dad served up holiday suppers to everyone else.  We had Christmas mornings where we couldn’t open Father Christmas presents until after lunch because Mum hadn’t put them together yet, because she’d been up until three in the morning cleaning up from whatever party the Empire had hosted the night before.  We never spent Christmas Day in this house, John.  We spent it at the Empire, helping to give it the yearly scrub-down because there was no other time in the year when it was closed for long enough to do it.  _Normal_ kids spend Christmas Day playing with their new toys.  We spent it polishing candelabras and beating Afghani rugs.”

 

Harry picked up the now-empty box and started to break it down.  “I just…I want _one_ memory, John.  Other people, they remember holidays and they think of delicious meals and stupid songs on the radio.  You know what I remember?  The scent of silver polish and trying not to choke on a year’s worth of dust.”

 

John slowly went through the pile of serviettes.  He couldn’t look at Harry, but he could still hear her sniffling and moving across the rough wooden floors.  The serviettes were so thin under his fingers, nearly as thin as Sherlock’s shirt.  He couldn’t imagine that they’d been very good at wiping up dirty chins or fingers.  And they were so stained, he couldn’t imagine anyone would want to purchase them, even assuming Oxfam was willing to accept them as donation.

 

The worst of it was that Harry was right.  John tried to think of a Christmas that didn’t involve working at the Empire, and couldn’t.  Even if his own versions of those memories were filled with family laughter, singing carols as they scrubbed, eating take-away Chinese by candlelight and opening family presents in the middle of the sparkling clean dining room.  “Our prize for a job well done,” James Watson had called it, as they pulled on Christmas crackers and traded the God-awful jokes and wore the ridiculous paper hats. 

 

Maybe they weren’t the same holiday memories that everyone else had.  Somehow, that’d made them even more _his_.

 

“The attic was probably a bad choice, if you were going for a lack of dust,” he offered.

 

There was a long pause – and then Harry began to laugh. 

 

“Fuck, I hate you,” she said, through her laughter, and it wasn’t all right, but at least it was better.

 

*

 

They spent the rest of the afternoon sorting boxes.  Most were set aside for donation: childhood toys that deserved a second life in other children’s arms; linens that neither of them particularly wanted; dried-up art supplies and an entire crate of brand-new canning jars.  Cookbooks, and cookbooks, and cookbooks, all of which John eventually lugged down the stairs and into the sitting room for Sherlock to peruse when he had the time.

 

Every time he went down into the house, the warmth from the kitchen hit his face like a fire.  The smells were gorgeous, mouth-watering and tantalizing.  It was all John could do not to follow them into the kitchen and ask for a mouthful, but something stopped him.  He would glance in the kitchen, watch Sherlock concentrate on his chopping block as he went through the onions, lickety-split, or carefully place the spun-sugar decoration on the top of some fancy dessert.

 

Sherlock, in his element.  It wasn’t something John saw so very often; their kitchen in London’s Baker Street was John’s domain, and Sherlock tended to keep the fancy Work at his own restaurant.  Watching Sherlock now – it was a bit as though he had stopped belonging to John entirely, had stopped even _thinking_ of John, probably was completely unaware that John even existed, let alone that Sherlock himself was in John’s house. 

 

One of the nurses in the A&E had asked him once.  To be fair, she’d asked the entire room, but it didn’t matter; John knew the question had been meant for him, because there was an old episode of _Restaurant Reconstructed_ playing on the telly in the lounge.  “Do you ever sit and wonder at your life, that you ended up where you are?”

 

John supposed he could have done, very easily: wonder how the hell he’d ended up living with, in love with, domestically partnered to a celebrity chef, and one with his own line of restaurants and fanbase and forums. 

 

But he didn’t.  At home, Sherlock was none of those things: he was just a self-centered arsehole who never did the cooking and often asked John to cross the flat in order to fetch things that were just barely out of his reach.   One didn’t exactly become starry-eyed over blokes like that, least of all John Watson.  Most of the time, John forgot that Sherlock had customers who made reservations months in advance just to sit at his chef’s table and be belittled by the master chef  himself.

 

Watching Sherlock perform in the Baker Street house kitchen – because it was nothing less than a performance, only one where the audience was delayed somewhat – was a stark reminder of their differences.  Sherlock was a master chef; the celebrity was both coincidence and result.  John was a failed restaurant owner; being a doctor was almost moot, after that.

 

Boxes and boxes of cookbooks – it was as if James Watson had purchased every cookbook published in the last fifty years.  John lugged them down from the attic, one by one, and when he was done with that, he started lugging boxes containing thirty-year-old art projects done in crayon and twenty-year-old essays about the fall of the Roman Empire. 

 

“Hey,” said Harry, when John came back up the stairs after starting in on the boxes of tea towels and aprons.  She grinned at him.  “Forget those; I found something better.”

 

John eyed her grin warily.  “Better than stained tablecloths?”

 

“Tons,” said Harry, and handed him a box.

 

*

 

“We’re having people for Boxing Day, John, we _have_ to decorate.”

 

“I’m just saying, the whole point of the weekend was to _clear away_ the rubbish, not add to it.”

 

Harry grinned down at him from where she perched precariously on the back of a chair.  She’d kicked her shoes off in order to climb about as if playing an elaborate game of The Floor Is Lava, and the fairy lights she was attempting to string along the walls were still twisted in an odd pattern reminiscent of the tangle they’d been only half an hour before. 

 

John sat in the middle of the floor, patiently untangling additional lights.  Christ, how many strands of fairy lights had their mother purchased over the years, anyway? 

 

“You’d sound more convincing if you weren’t surrounded by tissue paper and holly,” said Harry cheerfully.  “Are you done with those lights yet?  Because we’ve got a whole wall unadorned still.”

 

There was a snort from the sofa, where Sherlock was stretched out and reading one of James Watson’s five thousand cookbooks.

 

“If the peanut gallery wishes to comment, the peanut gallery can help,” said John. 

 

“Mmm, no,” said Sherlock.  “I very much doubt your grandfather ever actually looked at half the books he purchased.”

 

“I suspect some of them were gifts,” said Harry, as she finished hanging the strand of lights in her hands.  She landed, seated, in the chair.  “ _To James, Not that you need this, but here’s another cookbook as you have no other life apart from the Empire and none of us know what to get you._ ”

 

“Ladles,” said John.  “He was always hunting for ladles, complaining that he didn’t have enough of them.”

 

“Most of these books are terrible,” said Sherlock. 

 

“Then we’ll dump them on Oxfam and let someone else figure that out.”

 

“Not those,” said Sherlock, waving to a pile set in the corner next to the telly. 

 

John handed Harry another strand of lights.  “You’re welcome to them.”

 

“No, John,” said Sherlock.  “Those we _sell_ – they’ll fetch at least a hundred quid online.”

 

Harry’s eyes went wide.  “ _Each?_ ”

 

Sherlock nodded.

 

“Blimey,” said John.

 

“Amazing what people will pay for certain recipes,” said Sherlock, and turned another page in the cookbook. 

 

“There’s half a dozen books in that stack.”

 

“Mmm,” said Sherlock.  “This one’s rubbish.”  He closed the book with a snap, but instead of dropping it on the increasingly messy pile next to the sofa with all the other discards, he flung it neatly across the room to Harry, who just barely caught it.

 

“ _The History of Food in Bristol_?” she read, and looked up at Sherlock with a frown.  “Why am I holding this?”

 

“I should think it would be obvious,” said Sherlock.  “What with your new endeavor.  It’s dry and tediously written and half the recipes would never actually work if performed by an amateur cook, but it would at least give you a start for what to expect there.  Your pile of research, by the way, is by the bookshelves.”

 

Harry looked at the pile by the bookshelves – about a dozen books in all.  “I’m supposed to go to Brazil next.”

 

“Mmm.”  Sherlock was already on the next cookbook, and Harry stared at the book in her lap. 

 

“It just…it just seems so _small_ , you know?  No, not small.  I mean…”  Harry ran her hand down the cover of the book.  “Different.  The same.  I can’t describe it.”

 

“Describe what?” asked John.

 

Harry laughed hollowly.  “I don’t even know.  It’s stupid. It’s like the Empire, you know.  I think I maybe forgot that it burned down.  I kept remembering it the way we left it, that last night when we brought the portraits home and Molly took the Kitchen Aid.  I mean, I _knew_ it was gone, but – I just kept forgetting.  Like you forget that you’ve got a bruise on your arm until you hit it just right and it starts to hurt all over again.  And _everything’s_ like that.  There’s new flavors of Aero bars and the crisps I really like aren’t made anymore and there’s a new traffic pattern going into Coventry and the Tesco has remodeled and I can’t find where anything is anymore.  There’s new neighbors across the street, did you notice?  The Joneses used to put up these God-awful blow-up figures for Christmas, you’d hear the motors running all night.  And music.  The tinny kind that sticks in your ears.  But they’re moved, and the new neighbors – I don’t even know their _names_ – they just put up lights.  And you know what?  I kind of miss the music and the figures, which is stupid because I _hated_ them.”

 

“Mrs Hudson has new curtains,” said John, and Harry snorted as she looked up.

 

“I’m having serious reverse culture shock here and all you can contribute is that Mrs Hudson has new _curtains_.”

 

“And new flour, apparently, you can’t disregard that entirely,” added John, and he shifted to sit next to Harry’s feet.  “Anyway, it’s not severe.  You aren’t doing anything particularly crazy yet.”

 

“John,” said Harry patiently.  “I am decorating.  _For Christmas_.”

 

“Rubbish,” announced Sherlock, and dropped the cookbook on the pile with a thump. 

 

“If he falls asleep,” said Harry, “I’m going to decorate him with holly.”

 

“I think you should do it,” said John.  “The books, I mean.  If you’re having second thoughts.”

 

“Oh, please,” snorted Harry.  “I’m onto the teens now.”  She shifted on the chair, and then pulled the fairy lights out of John’s hands.  “Enough of that.  We need to finish the decorations if we’re going to get any sleep before morning.”

 

“I doubt Santa’s stopping by to leave presents for any of us.”

 

“Speak for yourself, boyo,” said Harry.  “I’ve been an angel all year.”

 

*

 

Sometime during the night, it snowed.  It wasn’t very much, and it barely covered the grass, but it was still snow on Christmas morning.

 

Children on Baker Street woke early, discovered their new acquisitions, jumped on their parents’ beds as often as necessary, and clambered out of their houses, some still in pajamas, to ride their new bicycles or scooters down the street.  By ten, there were scraped knees and bruised elbows and at least one radio-controlled car that had been involved in a three-way accident, and it was the sound of shouts and laughter that finally woke John Watson in his bed. 

 

Sherlock was a heavy lump beside him, head buried under the pillow, bound and determined to sleep for as long as possible.  John thought about waking him up, about curling himself around the lanky, warm body, and kissing all the places he knew would rouse Sherlock from sleep.  It would be slow and sweet and just a bit dangerous, because there was every chance that Harry would walk in, or that one of them would fall off the narrow bed.

 

And then his stomach growled, and Sherlock groaned in his sleep and waved his arm, nearly clocking John on the nose.

 

“Janet, the doughnuts are ready, go dunk them in the coffee.”

 

John buried his head in the pillow to stifle his laughter, and a moment later, slipped out of the bed.  He wrapped his robe around himself and slipped out of the room and downstairs to the kitchen.  He could see the glow of fairy lights in the sitting room; he supposed they’d left them on last night.  Well, he thought, at least they hadn’t burned to crisps in their beds overnight, so that was all right.

 

There wasn’t a large breakfast planned, at least not one of which John was aware.  The big meals were meant for that afternoon, and then again the next day.  John switched on the kettle and set up his teacup, and then turned to the basket of baked things that Mrs Hudson had pressed on him the day before: scones and muffins and quick breads that would be delicious as toast with jam.  He put a few slices in the toaster, and took a large bite of a blueberry muffin while he waited, and went into the sitting room, and found Harry sitting on the sofa, curled up under a blanket, and clutching a mug of tea that had surely gone cold. 

 

“Harry,” he whispered, and Harry turned to look at him, smiling.

 

“Morning, John,” she whispered back.  “Happy Christmas.  I was just sitting here, thinking.”

 

“I’ll get you some more tea,” said John, and reached for the mug.

 

“I’m fine.  Just…sit with me, for a moment?”

 

John did, and Harry lifted the blanket enough for him to scoot under.  She curled up next to him, rested her head on his shoulder, but didn’t turn away from the sitting room.

 

The fairy lights twinkled yellow around the room; candles were set at various intervals in the holly and ribbons, flickering and setting off a golden glow.  Harry had drawn the curtains halfway, blocking most of the sunlight, but it was bright enough to see their mother’s collection of Father Christmases guarding the mantle.  They’d never purchased a tree, but the ornaments hung from every place they could find – the corners of frames on the wall, lamp switches and anything that stuck out at odd angles.  Harry had filled a large glass mixing bowl with all the brightly colored balls that normally went on a tree, and it sat on top of the telly, looking festive and pretty, as if it had always been meant to be that way.

 

“Clara liked to decorate.  I don’t know where she found the energy.  But she’d do up our flat, a little bit over time, and then on Christmas morning, it’d all be finished and lovely.  We’d sit and just admire it, all morning long.”

 

“You should have invited her today.”

 

Harry breathed for a few minutes.  “She’s with her family, in York.  All her nieces and nephews – they’re still little enough that Christmas morning is fun.”  Harry drank the tea in her mug, and swallowed with some difficulty.  “Ugh, it’s terrible cold.”

 

“I started the kettle again.”

 

“Good.  Does Sherlock’s brother have kids?”

 

John snorted.  “No.  I can’t think of anything more frightening than Mycroft Holmes’s progeny.  They’d all be wearing suits and ties and spouting political and economic rhetoric, and staring at you suspiciously.  Or offering you bribes.”

 

“So like every other child on the planet, really.  Except for the suits and ties, anyway.”

 

“Yes.”  There was a click in the distance; the toaster, John thought.  His water would have long since boiled, too, and his stomach wasn’t much placated by the muffin.

 

But the room was pretty, and it was warm under the blanket, and Harry seemed disinclined to move from his shoulder.

 

And it was hours before they’d need to be ready for guests.

 

“Harry?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“The decorations.  They’re…good.  What you did.  It’s…good.”

 

Harry smiled.  “Happy Christmas to you too, John.”

 

*

 

The knock on the front door shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it still echoed through the house like a death toll.  John could feel it in his bones, and the music that was already playing in the kitchen was turned up several notches in response.

  
“Oh, very nice, that’s very adult of you,” John told Sherlock, who ignored him in favor of the vegetables sautéing on the stove.

 

Mycroft waited patiently on the other side of the door, with the smile on his face that John had privately decided to call “Mycroft neutral” – it was passive, almost friendly, and just a tiny bit overbearing, which was about as neutral as Mycroft ever was. 

 

“John,” he said pleasantly, and the music in the kitchen became impossibly louder.  Mycroft ignored it.  “So kind of you to invite me to your family home for Christmas.”

 

“Well,” said John, equally pleasant, “hardly fair to let you spend the holiday alone at the Cottage.”

 

“Mmm,” said Mycroft, with a sort of tone that indicated that he might have been perfectly happy to do so. Mycroft stepped into the foyer, glancing around as if he were assessing the place.  He rested his umbrella and hat on available hooks, and the coat slid off his shoulders as easily and smoothly as if it’d been a cape.  “A lovely home, John.  Quite well kept, considering you haven’t lived here in…what is it now, a year?”

 

“Two, in February.  There’s a family friend who keeps an eye on it for us, we had to do a whole mess of work on the roof and the plumbing this past summer.”

 

“All new, then?  Everything in tip-top shape?  No dry rot worth mentioning?”

 

“None of which I’m aware.  I suppose the estate agents will be the judge, though.”

 

“Indeed.  Have you signed with one yet?”

 

“Leave it, Mycroft,” snapped Sherlock from the kitchen door. He had a scowl on his face and a bit of flour on his cheek; his hair was a riot of curls and the apron he wore was striped with blue and white.  “John isn’t going to sell the house to _you_.”

 

“Then you are thinking to sell?” Mycroft queried.  “I wasn’t aware that it had been decided.”

 

“We have an appointment with a solicitor on Monday,” said John, with a quick glance at Sherlock. 

 

“An appropriately vague answer,” replied Mycroft.  “Ah, and there she is, the woman of the afternoon.  Harriet.”

 

“Mike,” said Harry sweetly from the stairwell.  She was just coming down, her dark blonde hair shining and held back from her face in a low ponytail, and wearing – of all things – a green dress so dark it was nearly black.  Had Mycroft not been standing there, silently judging everything that occurred, John might have whistled.  “So nice of you to join us.  Close your mouth, John, you look like you’ve never seen a girl in a dress before.”

 

“Not _you_ , anyway,” said John, and Harry pinched his arm with one hand as she looped the other through Mycroft’s elbow.

 

“Come on, Mike, I’ve got the good brandy out,” she said.  “And you’re going to drink it and tell me about every bloody sip in excruciating detail.”

 

John left them to it and went into the kitchen, where Sherlock was back at the stove, stirring the vegetables again.  “I don’t understand how your brother and my sister manage to be so civil and still hate each other so thoroughly.”

 

“Long hours of practice suffering cultural divides, I suspect,” replied Sherlock.  “Open.”

 

John obediently opened his mouth; Sherlock popped a pearl onion into it.  “Mmm.  Balsamic – the good stuff you brought back from Italy last month, I think.  The ten-year, not the four?”

 

Sherlock smiled as he stirred.  “You’re improving.”

 

“I pay attention from time to time.”  John leaned back against the counters.  “You told Mycroft we were selling the house.”

 

“I never tell Mycroft anything if I can help it.  I’m sure he read it in the empty boxes in the rear of the house, however.”

 

“He didn’t even _go_ to the rear of the house.”

 

Sherlock turned the gas off and reached for a serving bowl.  He started to spoon the vegetables into it. The vegetables fell into the serving bowl, steaming and dark with the balsamic sauce.  They smelled thick and rich and spicy, a delicious blend of earth and sunshine, and for a moment, John was mesmerized by the cascade of green.

 

And then he realized that Sherlock hadn’t said anything – hadn’t even snorted, or made some kind of derisive motion that was meant to be a wordless complaint about his brother.  Worse – wouldn’t so much as meet John’s eyes.

 

“Sherlock,” he said, and Sherlock made no sound. 

 

It was as good as speech.  “He wants to buy it.”

 

Sherlock exhaled.  “I believe so, yes.”

 

John closed his eyes.  “Why the _hell_ does Mycroft want to buy this house?”

 

“Why does Mycroft persist in coming to my restaurant on the third Tuesday every month?” asked Sherlock irritably.  “Because he’s an insufferable git who wants to control my life and I suppose his latest tactic is to do so by purchasing this house.  You could refuse to sell it to him.”

 

“Not if he offers the highest bid, or frightens away anyone else.  Which you _know_ he’d do.  Might have done already.”

 

“Or you could not sell it at all.”

 

“And suffer Harry’s complaints for the rest of my life?”

 

“Then sell it to him, John,” snapped Sherlock.  “I don’t care what you do with the house – sell it, keep it, _burn_ it, but please shove over so I can reach the serving spoons.”

 

John exhaled in a slow stream.  “I always heard you were an arse in the kitchen.  Guess they weren’t lying.”

 

Sherlock said nothing; John left the kitchen, more unsettled than when he’d gone in.

 

*

 

It was only the four of them for Christmas dinner, which ought to have kept the quantities of food at bay, but somehow, the table was overflowing to the point that half the meal had to be kept on the sideboard.  Sherlock had apparently gone all out – though John wasn’t sure who he was trying to impress.  Harry ate everything with gusto, completely oblivious to the tension between the men at the table.  The animosity between the brothers was a continual state of affairs, but now John wasn’t particularly inclined to participate in the niceties, either.

 

“Goodness, Sherlock,” said Mycroft, his eyes wide as Sherlock brought out yet another covered bowl of food.  “This is the…fourth vegetable?  I thought all present were firmly in the omnivore camp.”

 

“Vegetables are good for you, Mycroft,” said Sherlock.

 

“I had no idea you had turned into Jamie Oliver, Sherlock.”

 

Had it been anyone else, Sherlock would have gone straight into a tirade.  Instead, he simply gave his brother one of his most frightening smiles.  “Don’t worry, I used plenty of butter and cream – you’ll barely know you’re having something nutritious.”

 

“I hope you’re talking about the potatoes,” said Harry cheerfully.

 

“Sadly, no – home-made chicken stock and buttermilk, in order to keep them a bit lighter,” said Sherlock over his shoulder, and Mycroft brightened for a brief moment as he reached for them.  “Oh, and garlic.”

 

Mycroft looked somewhat pained and drew his hand back. 

 

“Oh, dear,” said Sherlock, with a falsely troubled expression on his face.  “Was the garlic a mistake?  I’m so dreadfully sorry.  Have some of the sweet potatoes, Mycroft, I flavored them with whiskey and pecans.”

 

“Sherlock,” warned John, but Sherlock ignored him. 

 

“Brothers can be terrible,” said Harry, leaning her chin on her hand.  “I’ll bet Sherlock was a perfect monster when he was a kid, wasn’t he, Mike?”

 

“Past, present, and no doubt future, Harriet,” said Mycroft dryly.  “If there’s enough whiskey in the sweet potatoes, I’ll be regaling you all with quite a litany of tales before too long.”

 

“John was the opposite – the perfect golden boy, he could do no wrong.  Our parents absolutely doted on him, it was enough to make you sick – and worse, you couldn’t hate him for it, he was just too good.”

 

“I understand that feeling completely,” said Sherlock, dropping another bowl – this time, filled with warm, yeasty-smelling bread rolls – on the table.  Mycroft rolled his eyes and reached over it for the string beans.

 

“Younger siblings are a trial,” said Mycroft, as he graciously served Harry some of the beans first.  “Sherlock wrote down his first recipes on the wall in his bedroom.”

 

John snorted.  He could believe it; there were mornings he woke to find the entire lavatory mirror covered in tiny script, detailing recipes Sherlock had thought up while in the shower.

 

“That’s a lie,” Sherlock called from the kitchen.  “I wrote them on the wall in _your_ bedroom.” 

 

“John would lock himself in the lav for _hours_ when I was trying to get ready for a date,” said Harry.  “Just to keep me out of it.”

 

“I did not!”

 

“True,” Harry told Mycroft, who chuckled as if it were a great joke, but John thought he saw a flicker of concern in his eyes.

 

“Only one bathroom for all of you?”

 

Oh, _Christ_ , thought John.

 

“One up, one down, but all my makeup was in the upstairs loo, wasn’t it?  If he had to lock himself in with a stomach bug, you’d think he’d have the decency to use the one downstairs.”

 

“Two baths is quite generous for a house this old,” said Mycroft as he began to cut the roast.  John sat back in his chair, and crossed his arms, watching.  “When was it built, 1937?  ‘38?”

 

“Oh, before that, I’d think.  They lived in the flat above the Empire first, and then bought this place when Dad was a kid.”

 

“Then it’s been in the family quite a while.”

 

“Yeah – there’s pictures somewhere of what it looked like then – Mum and Dad did a lot of renovation when we were kids.  John, do you remember the Anderson shelter?”

 

“I remember you locking me inside one day, and then kicking the sides and shouting about how the Germans were coming.”

 

Mycroft had been about to take a bite of roast; this tidbit proved to be too much.  “It’s not still there, then?”

 

“God, no, the thing was a death trap by then.”

 

“I admit it’s rather surprising; scrap metal was at a premium after the war.”

 

Harry shrugged.  “Probably where Dad sold it, honestly.” 

 

“Three bedrooms, of course,” said Mycroft thoughtfully.  “And no cellar, if there was an Anderson.  Attic?”

 

Harry groaned.  “God, don’t even mention it.  John and I were in it all yesterday clearing it out.”

 

“City water?  Gas?  Electric?”

 

Harry blinked.  “I…”

 

John slammed his hand down on the table.  “Why don’t you just ask when we plan to have it on the market and be done with it, Mycroft?  Or better yet, make an offer so we can refuse and stop wasting everyone’s time?”

 

“ _John_!” 

 

Mycroft set down his fork and knife.  “I apologize, John, I appear to have upset you.”

 

“Trying to buy my house at Christmas dinner tends to do that, yeah,” said John tersely.  “Particularly when it’s _not for sale yet_.”

 

“The word _yet_ being the operative word, John,” said Mycroft, just as calm as if John wasn’t simmering with anger at the same table.  “I can make you a very good offer, if you’d like to avoid all the fuss with putting the house on the official market.  I can even promise a certain percentage above the actual value, once that value is calculated.  And of course you are welcome to discuss this with your solicitor on Monday – in fact, if you’d like, I can have an offer waiting in her office when you arrive.”

 

John pressed his lips together and drummed his fingers on the table.  He glanced at Harry, who was sitting up straighter than before, her eyes darting back and forth between them. 

 

Sherlock, of course, was hiding out in the kitchen.  Probably waiting on the other side of the door, listening through a glass.

 

“I _am_ willing to negotiate, if you’d like to make a counter-offer,” added Mycroft pleasantly.  “But really, I want this to be as easy and obvious a solution to your situation as can be—“

 

“ _Situation_ ,” repeated John, and instantly flashed back to the other Holmes brother using the same   phrase.  His blood quickened, and his head began to spin a bit. It wasn’t a particularly comfortable feeling.  “What _situation_ do you think we have, Mycroft?”

 

Mycroft’s eyes widened, briefly, and then his expression settled back into neutrality again.  “I refer to the sale of the house, of course.  Is there another situation at hand?  The bank isn’t calling in on the debt, is it?  I had been given to understand that the use of the money, while not quite the original intent of the loan, was still enough of a business investment that it didn’t actually violate the terms of the loan itself.”

 

The quick intake of breath was so slight and soft, the only reason John knew Harry made it was because he was looking directly at her.  Her eyes were wide above her shaking hand that covered her lips.

 

“Oh, goodness,” sighed Mycroft.  “It’s not a _threat_ , what sort of man do you take me for?  If you don’t wish to sell me the house, I certainly won’t retaliate in any way.  But I would greatly appreciate if you at least considered my offer – and I know you would greatly appreciate the offer itself, which I assure you would be worth considering.”

 

John took a deep breath, and let it out slowly – and wondered exactly how many times he’d done that in the course of his Christmas holiday so far.  Several times a day at least, it seemed.

 

“You’re welcome to send any number you like to our solicitor, of course,” he said as calmly as he could manage.  It didn’t sound very calm, not even to him – nor to Mycroft, if the way Mycroft’s hand went so very still on the edge of the table was any indication.  John thought he sounded as if he were one final serving bowl of vegetables away from tipping the entire table onto Mycroft’s head.  “And I assure you, my sister and I might even look at it.  But I will tell you this, Mycroft – there is no amount of money you could offer that would entice me to sell this house to you, or any other man with the last name _Holmes_ , or connection to your family.  The debt Harry and I have is ours and ours alone, and I’ll be _damned_ if I let you pay it off for me.”

 

And with that, John dropped his serviette on his lap, and began to eat.

 

The dinner might have continued around him.  Sherlock might have slunk into the room, with a final serving bowl of something.  Harry might have asked a timid question; Sherlock might have made a cautious answer; Mycroft might have kept his fat gob shut for the rest of the meal.

 

John didn’t know.  John didn’t care.  John ate the food on his plate, and when he was done, he dropped his serviette on the chair and left the room for a long walk in the back garden, where he sat in the corner where an Anderson shelter had once stood, and waited for his temper to cool.

 

*

 

It was full dark when someone came out to join him.  The lights on Baker Street were shining on the other side of the house, but John had turned his back on them, though he could see the faint light they cast on the ground around him. 

 

John heard the person approaching, their footsteps crunching across the frozen grass, long before he figured out who it was.  The only thing he was sure of was that it wouldn’t be Mycroft; he’d heard Mycroft’s car leave perhaps five minutes before.

 

He hoped it was Sherlock.  He wanted it to be Sherlock.  It probably wouldn’t be Sherlock.  Sherlock was probably still in the kitchen, angry and slamming pots and pans around. John had as good as accused him of… well, being _nice_.  Sherlock might never speak to John again.

 

“I’m not trying to buy your house through Mycroft,” said Sherlock, standing next to John, and John let out a long breath.

 

“I didn’t really think you were.”

 

“Yes, you did.”  Sherlock’s voice was tight and sharp, a quick little cut with a paring knife.  John felt the jab and winced.

 

“All right, I did.  I don’t want your help.”

 

Sherlock huffed.  “Why do you think I never offered it before?”

 

“Because you’re a cold-hearted bastard who doesn’t give a damn about money and what it means to other people?”

 

Sherlock sat down on the grass next to him.  “Would you have accepted it, had I offered?”

 

John couldn’t look at him.  “No.”

 

“And you would have hated me for your inability to accept, and you would have resented my ability to support you monetarily, and in the end, it would have destroyed us.  There is no situation in which I could give you the money to pay off the debt that would have ended with us continuing to play happy families, John.”

 

He sounded so quiet and self-assured; as if he’d been thinking about it for far longer than the hour that John had been sitting outside.  “ _Playing_ happy families?  Is that what we’ve been doing the last year?”

 

“Any family with a Mycroft cannot possibly be a truly happy one.”

 

“Can you be serious for _one_ question?”

 

“ _Mycroft_ ,” spat Sherlock, “is the one who caused this particular unhappy discussion, so I’ll stand by my statement.  I didn’t ask him to buy your house.  I didn’t even tell him you were considering to sell it.  And I never told him about the substantial amount of debt you and Harry accrued in your attempt to save the Empire, nor that you and she both struggle to pay it off.  Mycroft doesn’t need a house.  Mycroft doesn’t even _want_ another house, let alone yours, but _Mycroft_ has taken it upon himself to buy your house, giving you and Harry the funds you’d need to pay down the debt, because he knows that you would never accept assistance given when you can give nothing in return.  And perhaps he’s the better man for doing it, because it’s a rather neat solution, isn’t it?  Mycroft buys your house, you and Harry receive enough funds to reduce your debt to something insignificantly manageable, and he receives a house.  You wouldn’t need to feel indebted to him, it would be a fair trade for all concerned, and yet you would never truly lose the house and the memories it contains.  It’s a far better deal than I could offer you, John – a far better deal than I _have_ offered you.”

 

“ _You_ didn’t offer me any sort of deal.”

 

“No.  I didn’t.”  Sherlock shifted on the grass.  “Should I have?”

 

John closed his eyes.  He tried to imagine it – every month, Sherlock writing the cheque to pay off the debt.  He’d do it casually, with the same amount of disdainful flair that he did every other despicable chore.  He’d write out a ridiculously high number, sign his name, leave it lying around the flat for John to find and put in the envelope and pop into the post box on his way to work the next day.  That was how all of the bills were paid, and John rolled his eyes every time, and didn’t think much of it.

 

Somehow, the task was more distasteful, if the payment was made in John’s name alone.  John was never so cavalier about the payments: he sat down every month, checked the amount in his account, carefully balanced every bill that came in.  The debt came first – it _had_ to, it was too substantial and important to be any less.  And every month, John could just cover it, with the money that Harry sent regularly, and his own income from the A &E.  There’d be enough left for food and his mobile and sometimes shoes to replace the ones he’d destroyed over time, and every time he managed to cover everything he owed, he could post the cheques with a sigh of relief.  It wasn’t a particularly _good_ feeling – but he could do it.  _Was_ doing it.  Without help.

 

“No,” said John quietly.  “I’m glad you never did.”

 

“Pride,” scoffed Sherlock.

 

“That too.” 

 

John turned to Sherlock, finally.  He was backlit by the lights pouring out of the house; his hair caught the faint glow of twinkling lights from the street, shaping the contours of his face, outlining him in a golden glow.  He looked a bit like a statue, something one could expect to see in the Tate Modern.

 

“Christ, Sherlock, aren’t you wearing a coat?”

 

“I have spent the entire day in an overheated kitchen.  A coat is the last thing I want to wear at the moment.”

 

“Aren’t you cold?”

 

Sherlock turned to him.  John could almost hear his eyebrow rise.  “Aren’t you going to keep me warm?”

 

“Wanker,” said John, and leaned into to kiss him.  Sherlock’s mouth tasted like rosemary and wine, pearl onions and balsamic and pepper.  His lips were cold, but his tongue was warm and wet and lovely, and the more John licked into his mouth, the more he could taste all the flavors of dinner, layered by time and temperature, as if all the tastings Sherlock had done throughout the day had remained for John to sample.

 

“I didn’t say before,” said John, as he worked his way down Sherlock’s jaw to his exposed neck.  “Dinner was delicious.”

 

“Mycroft makes poor seasoning.”  Sherlock’s voice sounded a bit strained; he arched his neck back; John thought he was trembling, though it might not have necessarily been the cold.  John pushed him, just a bit, and Sherlock fell softly to the grass, so that John could stretch out comfortably above him.

 

“Stop talking about your brother,” he scolded, and then kissed Sherlock again.  Sherlock’s hands touched John’s shoulders, then slid up to cradle the back of his neck. 

 

John rested on his side, drawing Sherlock to him, so that they both faced each other.  The ground would have been too hard for any other position, though John suspected they would both be soaked by the time they were done.  Sherlock pressed close – colder than he’d admit, of course, but then, John wasn’t wearing a coat either, and his holiday jumper wasn’t actually meant to keep someone warm outside. 

 

John nuzzled at Sherlock’s neck, and then kissed him again, lips on lips and tongue on teeth, trying to determine what else he could taste.  “French grey,” he said into Sherlock’s mouth.

 

Sherlock chuckled.  It vibrated through John, straight down to his cock.  “On the asparagus.”

 

“Where’d you put the Himalayan pink?”

 

“You tell me,” said Sherlock darkly, and John chuckled and kissed him again.

 

“Not the roast – that’s the smoked sea salt.”

 

“Very good, John.”

 

John twined his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, holding him still as he licked inside his mouth, dragged his tongue across his teeth and into the crevices.  Sherlock might have been pliant, under his ministrations, and wasn’t – his fingers worked their way under the hem of John’s jumper, running along the fabric of his shirt, threatening to pull it up, touch his skin directly. 

 

But as pleasant as it was – it was too cold, and too exposed for John to want to push it a little further.  Sherlock’s mouth might have been warm and perfect, but the ground was too hard, and Harry too close, for John to want much more.  He pulled away with a grin, and ran his hand through Sherlock’s hair.

 

“Well?” asked Sherlock, a smile on his mouth.

 

“No idea,” said John.  “Tell me you don’t actually want to shag in the back garden.”

 

“As enjoyable as that could be – no,” said Sherlock dryly.  “Provided we can continue inside.  On a bed.  With blankets.”

 

John chuckled and rolled to his back to look up at the sky.  “The problem with holiday lights is you can’t see the stars.”

 

“John,” said Sherlock patiently.  “Despite being in the middle of nowhere, there is still too much ambient light in Upper Brickley for _anyone_ to see the stars, Christmas lights notwithstanding.”

 

“Berk,” said John fondly.  “As if we could see them any easier in London.”

 

“Mycroft has gone home.”

 

“I know, I heard his car.”

 

“Then you’ll come inside?”

 

“Anxious for that bed and blankets already?”

 

“Yes,” said Sherlock.  “And also it’s your turn to do the washing up.”

 

John laughed, and let Sherlock help him to his feet.

 

*

 

Boxing Day dawned bright and early, and Harry was already making breakfast when John came down.

 

He watched her at the hob for a few minutes.  Her hair was pulled up in a messy ponytail; her bare feet slid across the floor as she mixed and grated and shook the pan every so often.  The air smelled like yeast and onions.

 

“Harry,” he said, and Harry went still for a moment, and then started up again.

 

“Thought you’d sleep in longer,” said Harry with false cheer.  “Anyway, I’m making eggs.  I’m sure Himself will have a grand time being horrified by the way I’m cooking them.”

 

“They smell delicious.”

 

Harry snorted.  “They smell like someone who isn’t you cooking them, of _course_ they smell delicious.”

 

“That too,” agreed John, and he took a seat.  “Mycroft wants to buy the house.”

 

Harry cracked another egg into the bowl.  “I’m an alcoholic, John, not an idiot.”

 

“Well,” said John, “at least you’ll admit to one if not the other.”

 

“Arse.”

 

“Alkie.”

 

“Piss off.”

 

“I’ll have my eggs first, ta.”

 

Harry gave the pan on the hob another shake, and then poured the eggs in.  Sizzling and snapping, and after a minute, she gave them a stir and turned down the heat.

 

“About the loan, John—“

 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said John shortly.

 

“We’ve never talked about it—“

 

“And that’s fine,” John interrupted her.  “We don’t _need_ to talk about it.  You’ve been sending me money, I’ve been paying it down, the bank doesn’t want our heads on pikes, it’s all fine.”

 

Harry turned and leaned against the counter.  “I haven’t sent you my fair share of the payment in _months_ , John.  And I’m not sure I ever _will_.  Not doing what I’m doing – and I can’t do anything else.  I don’t know how to do anything – except run away.”

 

John closed his eyes.  “You’re not running away.”

 

“Aren’t I?” asked Harry bitterly.  “Photojournalism scared me, so I ran home.  Things got tough with Clara, so I ran from that, too.  And then I bollocksed up the restaurant and ran to Thailand.  Some outfit wants to give me a golden chance of publishing – and all I can think about is xxx.”

 

John opened his eyes again.  Harry’s eyes were dry; she looked a bit pale, with dark circles under her eyes, and he wondered if she’d managed any sleep at all.  “You didn’t run away from the Empire, Hare.  I should know, I was running with you.”

 

“Like you’d recognize running away,” scoffed Harry.

 

“Okay, point,” said John patiently.  “We’re covering the payments, Harry.  It doesn’t matter how much we’re putting in, it just matters that it’s _enough_.”

 

“It’s not enough from me.  I need to pull my own weight, John – it’s my fault we lost the Empire—”

 

“That’s not true—“

 

“Shut up, of course it is.  I just want to make it easier for you—“

 

“And you think selling the house is going to do that?”

 

“It’d cut the debt in half, John.  _Half_ , maybe more.  Make it easier to refinance, maybe lower the monthly payments….”

 

John shook his head.  “Harriet – we’re _fine_.  We don’t need to sell the house.”

 

John watched as Harry swallowed the words she’d been about to say, and nearly choked on them.  “I don’t have anything else to give you.”

 

Harry stared at him for a moment, blinking hard, and then turned back to the eggs, stirring them hard, sending the scent of onions and peppers and eggs and butter into the kitchen.  A warm, comfortable, homey sort of scent. 

 

John slowly pushed himself to his feet and stood next to Harry.  The eggs were just beginning to lose their shine.

 

“Harry,” he began.

 

“I need a plate,” said Harry, sniffling.

 

John reached into the cupboard and pulled one out.  He stared at it – it was small and white, or at least had been when it was new.  Now, it had seen so many meals over the years – eggs in the morning and sandwiches at lunch and toast and beans for tea and midnight slices of cake shared with James, who never attended a birthday party, because he was always at the restaurant.

 

 _Come downstairs, Johnny_ , James would whisper when he shook John awake.  _Let’s have a slice of your cake, just you and me.  Your mother doesn’t need to know_.

 

“You got me one last Christmas in this house, Harry,” said John quietly.  “And that’s more than I thought I’d ever have.”

 

Harry’s snort was drawn and high.  “I know you don’t want to sell.”

 

“No.  But…”  John gripped the sides of the plate.  “It can be your decision to make.”

 

Harry looked up sharply.  “John—“

 

“Better eat before they get cold,” said John, and sat down to eat his eggs.

 

*

 

The party had been going for about an hour when John reached over and touched Harry on the arm. 

 

“Mind if I interrupt?”

 

“Oh, not at all, I’m just listening to Artie’s latest exploit,” said Harry, amused, and Artie bristled across from her.

 

“Oi!”

 

John grinned at him.  “I’ll return her in a minute.”

 

John pulled Harry into the foyer, and handed her a coat.  Harry took it with a skeptical pause.

 

“You’re not going to drive me into the middle of the woods and make me dig my own grave, are you?”

 

John frowned.  “What on earth was Artie telling you?”

 

“He wants to write short stories now.”

 

“I’m seriously afraid for his readership.”

 

“I’m afraid for his editors, honestly,” said Harry, and pressed her wrists together before presenting them to John.  “All right, drag me away.  Should I kick and scream for effect?  Or maybe close my eyes?”

 

“If you like, but really unnecessary,” said John.  “And if you close your eyes, you’ll just end up tripping on the way out the door.  Do you really want to know how busy the A&E is on Boxing Day?”

 

“Busy enough that they didn’t want you underfoot, apparently.”

 

“Har-har.”

 

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” sang Harry as they walked through the kitchen to the back door.

 

“Christ, what are you, ten?  Oh, balls, can you grab that bag on the counter?  I forgot to bring them out before.”

 

Harry was able to snag the paper bag sitting on the counter just as John opened the door.  By the time she turned around, the door was already closing behind him.

 

“Oi, wait up!” she called, and pulled it open again.

 

Night had fallen hours before; the night was particularly cold, but perfectly still.  Every windowshade in the house was closed, which made the back garden darker, if not perfectly dark, but that would never have been the case anyway – not with the small bonfire burning in the dead center where it was unlikely to start any of the trees or shrubbery burning as well.

 

Sherlock leaned over the fire, poking at it with a long stick to shift the wood, and Mary stood by a folding table, laden with plates and toasting forks.  She looked up and made a face.

 

“John!” she scolded.  “I told you we weren’t ready yet.”

 

“Artie was talking her ear off, if I’d waited another minute she might have retaliated,” said John, and he turned to Harry.  “Well, Harry – you asked for a bonfire.  It’s probably not quite what you had in mind, but it’ll burn paper well enough.”

 

“I…”  Harry took a deep breath; she could smell the ash and cinders and the burning wood, and something sweeter, too.  “I was _kidding_.”

 

“No, you weren’t.”

 

“Okay, I wasn’t but – I didn’t think you’d _do_ it.”

 

“I thought about maybe trying it on the old Empire lot,” said John, “but we’d probably have been arrested for trespassing.”

 

“Or arson,” added Artie behind them.  “ _Ow_ , Molly, that was my _ribcage_.”

 

“I can’t help who the baby kicks,” said Molly innocently, and shoved by to give Harry a kiss on the cheek.  “Happy Christmas, Harry.”

 

“Molly!  You’re here!  I thought—”

 

“Wouldn’t miss it,” said Molly, and pulled out of the hug.  Harry stared at Molly’s tiny frame and large stomach.

 

“Good Christ, Moll, you swallowed a watermelon.”

 

“That’s what I thought, but she swears it’s a baby,” said Greg Lestrade.  “Happy Christmas, Harry, welcome back home.”  He offered her another quick kiss, and then began to pull his wife toward the fire.  “Christ, it’s cold out here.”

 

“Oh, there you all are,” said Mrs Hudson from the doorway, and Harry began to laugh.  “I rang the doorbell, no one answered.”

 

“They’re uncivilized louts, Mrs Hudson, I’m so sorry.”

 

“Of course they are, dear.  I brought chocolate muffins.”

 

“You’re a peach,” said Harry, and waited until John had helped her down the stairs to the grass before punching her brother in the arm.  “You _bastard_.  If the next person who walks through that door is my English lit teacher, I’m going to string you up by your toenails.  Turning Boxing Day into This Is Your Life….”

 

John smacked himself on the forehead.  “Damn, I knew I forgot to invite someone.”

 

“Wanker.” 

 

John saluted her, and started walking to the bonfire.  “Come on, then, there’s a whole box of old menus to burn.”

 

Harry gripped the wooden banister.  “John.”

 

He turned and looked at her.

 

She swallowed.  “Did… you didn’t invite….”

 

She couldn’t see John’s face, with his back to the fire.  “Would you have wanted me to invite Clara?”

 

Harry huffed.  “I’m not entirely sure she’d have wanted to come.”

 

“That’s not what I asked, though.”

 

Harry bit her lip.  “Yeah.  I think… yeah.  Maybe.”

 

John nodded.  “First stop, Berkshire, right?”

 

Harry looked at the bonfire – Artie and Greg Lestrade with beers in their hands, talking as they watched the flames.  Molly and Mary giggling and laughing, with Mary leaning down to put her hands on Molly’s not-quite-so protruding stomach, as if she’d never quite seen a pregnant woman before.

 

Sherlock, ignoring them all, tending the fire.

 

“Yeah,” she said.  “Yeah, I think so.”

 

John grinned.  “Come on.  Mary made marshmallows.”

 

Harry turned to stare at her brother.  “She did _what_?”

 

“She found a recipe online.  She says it was easy, but I think she’s lying.  Come on, you’re the marshmallow expert, you might as well show us what the hell we’re meant to do with them.”

 

Harry went and looped her arm through her brother’s.  “John.  About the house—“

 

John went still.  “If you still want to sell it—“

 

Harry watched their family around the fire, laughing and smiling and together.

 

“Maybe next year,” said Harry, and pulled her brother in.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Marshmallows _are_ easy, actually. [Here's a good one for a marshmallow creme.](http://www.chow.com/recipes/30296-homemade-marshmallow-creme) Master that, and you'll be making home-made marshmallows (which are WAY better than store-bought, you have no idea) in no time.
> 
> Merry Christmas!


End file.
